


we are at the end of it all

by olivemartini



Series: A Study in Sherlock [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Pining, whole lot of it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-27
Updated: 2018-06-27
Packaged: 2019-05-29 04:39:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15065315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/olivemartini/pseuds/olivemartini
Summary: I'm not gay, John had told Mycroft that first night, when he didn't know what it meant to be under a stare of a Holmes brother and try to hide something, back when he still believed it himself, back before 221B and Morairty and the swimming pool and that headfirst dive into the pavement, back before he knew what it was to love Sherlock Holmes.





	we are at the end of it all

_I'm not gay,_ John had told Mycroft that first night, when he didn't know what it meant to be under a stare of a Holmes brother and try to hide something, back when he still believed it himself, back before 221B and Moriarty and the swimming pool and that headfirst dive into the pavement, back before he knew what it was to love Sherlock Holmes.

 _I'm not gay,_ he said, and this time it was to Molly, who didn't like him at first just on the virtue that he had become Sherlock's favorite overnight, Molly with the morgue and the lipstick too red for her skin and Molly who was also completely in love with Sherlock even though it would have been better for her not to be, and at the time it had only made him laugh, because that was before the nights where they sat together at a bar and downed drink after drink, both of them pining over the exact same man, one because Sherlock would never love them and the other because they were fairly certain that he did, and what a terribly beautiful pain it was, to be loved by Sherlock Holmes.

 _Not gay,_ he had yelled out through a laugh, tossing it over his shoulder at Lestrade, but this time it was more of a joke than anything, because he had decided that the scales were finally tipping between what he wanted and what he thought was what he needed, and they were in a bar after a case, Sherlock at home, Sherlock away, out of his mind for the first time in ages, mostly because John was angry at him, angry at being the one who always has to give and give and give without any promise of the end, and there was a man leaning against the doorway like he knows that he never has to be the one to pursue, that he is always the one that is going to be chased, and if there is one thing that John has learned to love during his time with Sherlock, it is the chase, so he slide out of that booth and is the one to take for a change, he goes home and pretends that it is the grime of the bar that he is washing away in the scalding heat of the shower that morning, not his guilt.  

 _I'm not gay,_ and this time he was angry about it, not wanting to hear it from her, from Harry, Harry who he used to throw punches for on the playground when the boys in his class caught sight of her kissing another girl at an ice cream shop and word got around town that she was a girl who liked girls, a girl who slept around, a slut and a dyke and a bitch rolled up in one.  He took beatings for her and bruised his knuckles for her and let words fly from his mouth in defense of her and others like her even though it would have been easier to stay quiet, and he loved her, not in spite of it and not because of it, but loved her because she was his big sister, but even love draws thin sometimes, like when you're standing over your fathers grave and your phone keeps chiming from texts with Sherlock, which is mostly annoying but not at the same time, because John knows that it is his way of making sure he's okay.  Harry tells his she believes him, but there is a smile on her face, a little smirk that does not belong when you are staring at a headstone of a man that you are still pretending to love even when the proof is in the tears that are not coming.

 _I'm not gay,_ is what he told the Woman, and she had only shrugged, because knowing the truth of what a person wants is what she does for a living, so she must know, really, that all he wants is Sherlock, any way he could have him, every way he could have him, and the sound of the words falling from her mouth is almost pitying, an offering of understanding, her reaching out an arm to him and saying that she knows, better than anyone, how hard it is to resist him.   _And I am,_ she had said, and the ground rocks beneath his feet because he could lie to strangers and he could lie to his sister and he could lie to himself but he could not lie to her.   _Yet here we are._

 _I'm not gay,_ he says, hunched over in the mirror and speaking to his reflection, telling himself that thing that he has to remind himself of more and more lately, like when he stitches up a cut on Sherlock's temple and finds himself with his hand cradling Sherlock's cheek, or that morning they fell asleep on the couch and woke up tangled together and did not speak for three days, or those moments where he looks at him and the words are knocked loose in his chest, where he could not hide from the truth of it any longer, when he comes back to his senses and realizes that they are much too close, that he needs to step back, because he loves him, he loves him even when he should not love him and he cannot bear to run away, should not run away, but he can't do this, either, because-  _not gay not gay not gay._

"I'm not gay."  Is what he says out loud, even though Sherlock has been brave enough to be the one to make the first move between them, and John is not sure why he does it, not sure why he would ruin the chance at having what he so desperately wants just to repeat this thing that he knows is a lie.  "Sherlock," He says, when he still has not moved away, when John is still pinning back to the table and Sherlock is still standing there.  "I'm not gay."

"Aren't you?"  It's a test, is what it is.  It's a chance.  His one and only chance at having this, the one free pass that Sherlock will give him.  "Are you sure, John?"

 _Because you aren't straight,_ is what they are both thinking, because a straight man would never let it get this far, would not go out to bars and go home with strange men that could hurt him and go back to the flat and talk like they were women even though both you and your flat mate knows the truth, a straight man would not have fallen in love with Sherlock Holmes.  Or maybe they would have.  Maybe just like everything else, the regular rules don't apply when Sherlock gets involved.  

"I'm not gay,"  He repeats, and something like disappointment shutters down over Sherlock's eyes, and he steps away, and John knows, knows in that instant that he has done something irreparable, but he does not care in the moment, because Sherlock has moved away and now he can breathe.  

 _Not gay,_ he reminds himself later that night, listening to the melancholy music pouring off the violin from behind the wall and wishing the sound could choke him, drown him, take this all away, wondering when that particular lie would become worth it.

**Author's Note:**

> come find me on Instagram @olive.writes.fanfic


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